


DESPITE THE BEADS. 4-btvs-ats-ucsl

by iskierka



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:18:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskierka/pseuds/iskierka





	DESPITE THE BEADS. 4-btvs-ats-ucsl

Title: Despite the Beads  
Author: Briar  
feedback: s'wunderful! o0briar0o@yahoo.com  
Disclaimer: this here's Josscountry, I am merely an ambling Cowgirl.  
Yeeee-hAw!  
Rating: G  
jun 3, 2001  
Notes: I have no idea where this really came from. Contemplating  
finals, and pretty sites. Because of oddish muses. Distinctly inspired  
by looking at the Dead Letters website today, however, though I don't  
think this qualifies. 

crypticnote#2: It's been pointed out to me recently that  
pretentiousness sucks limes. Well, I agree. If I vibe it, it's not  
intended. I'm just me.

summary: Oz/?  
Oz gets a package.  
Dedications: Zen for Zahra. Zenvibes to anyone who needs it. Zen for  
all. ~zenthanks to you for reading this~ arigato.  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]  
[Despite the Beads]

 

Oz takes the box and holds it in his palms. It's light, and ratty.  
Picked on by bigger boxes, smudged by dirty hands.

The Tibetan air is cool and crisp, and somewhere far behind the gutted  
remnants of this squatter's "apartment" somebody's llama was dropping  
a load.

A ray of light shafts through the open gap of screenless window, that  
square of wood permitting sun. Sun, in turn, reflecting highlights off  
his head's Zen-sheared auburn stubble. Newly blood, expressly darkened  
in contrast to the milk of Ozflesh. Maybe soon Zen-razor would meet up  
with Oz's fresh and thickening beard.

He looks at the illegible writing, dark Rorschach scrawl and somehow  
he knows. The script is unfamiliar to his eyes. But it's not that kind  
of contact, yet. Just his comprehensive gut.

Flecks of a caked something are black bits he ignores as he uses thumb  
to open up taped cardboard wings.

He bears no surprise to find it, a crumpled ball of whitish paper.  
Butcher paper. Torn off manually, two feet square. Leaning in just  
affirms. Recognition. It is hers.

Nobody could ever answer just how in the world it could have made it's  
way here. To him. No real and acceptable reason how UPS, or its  
Chinese sister work a system reaching up into thin air of altitude as  
high as apple-pie hopes to touch its intended destination.

How someone finds another. It will be an unsolved mystery.

But somehow, some way this box and its contents have made their way  
past hoof-worn trails, by tryke, by boat.

Flying like a pig, or a magical monkey and fettering into the hollow  
of his sanctuary and solitude.

Like a pebble. Crashing waves on a baby pond.

And his face doesn't have to show it.

The scent of fear had never been. And although the paper still bore a  
musk as strong as a thick slap, rebuke, madfrenzy, was not its  
measure. Instead it was a flag, big as a tall banner and *proud* at  
that. Brazen and unapologetic. Garnished with resolve's cologne. Dried  
out, but the red mark lingers. Somewhere before she died Veruca had  
mailed him a gift of piss.

And she was satisfied. The Bitch Was Here.


End file.
